


The Rib is the Shell

by brittleblossoms



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Complicated Relationships, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-30
Updated: 2016-12-12
Packaged: 2018-07-11 01:24:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7019740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brittleblossoms/pseuds/brittleblossoms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was always going to end up a mess.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. oblivious

**Author's Note:**

> somebody stop me.
> 
> movieverse. pre AoU.
> 
> in other news, i've been holding on to this plot for a long, long time. mainly was waiting to see how civil war would play out before i started writing it because maybe i'll actually finish this.
> 
> beginnings are the worst.
> 
> my writing tumblr is brittleblossoms. i usually forget i have one.  
> Title is a Fiona Apple lyric. [the rib is the shell/and the heart is the yolk]

The key, innocuous and silver, fits perfectly into the lock.

Steve Rogers pauses. 

It seems silly, really, to be slipping away to a slightly dingy boxing gym at dark o’ clock in the morning when he has the entire Avengers facility at his fingertips. After all, the gym at the facility is spacious and chock full of state of the art equipment. But Pablo—a friend of a friend of Sam’s, one of those strange modern world connections via social media that Steve still doesn’t quite get—had promised him one thing that could never be guaranteed at the facility. Solitude. 

Honestly, if it wasn’t for the serious look in Pablo’s amber eyes despite the easy smile that had been on his lips, Steve would have shrugged it off. Pablo had followed up his offer with a casual murmur of _sometimes we all need a little space to ourselves_. Steve took the key. 

And now, for the first time, he's using it. 

The door clicks open quietly. Steve slides through the gap of the door and drops his duffel on the ground. He pauses briefly as his sharp ears pick up a quiet noise in the distance. “Hello?” he calls, reaching behind him to lock the door again. “Is someone there?” 

There’s no answer. He picks up his duffel and moves further into the gym, not bothering with the lights. The dingy façade of the building belays the interior. It’s not the perfect sheen of the Avengers facility, but even in the dim light streaming through the frosted glass of the windows, Steve can tell that the equipment is solid. Pablo clearly works hard to keep his gym in the best condition he can. 

He makes his way towards the shelving that’s clearly meant to house bags and drops his duffel in one of little carrels. He pulls out a few items before making his way towards the back room, where he knows the heavy bags are. 

Steve’s actually a little surprised at how large the gym is. There’s a few private rooms in the back. If the first one is any indication, they’re all a decent size. He’s just about to put his things down in the first one when he notices light streaming out from under the door of one of the room farther back. Steve blinks. He puts his things down and contemplates for a brief moment. 

With a sigh, he makes his way down the hall, curious to see who else would be alone in a gym at 4:45 in the morning. The door to the room is closed, but there’s a faint vibration of a bass line from behind it. Steve has a vague recollection of Pablo mentioning that the back rooms are soundproof. There’s a glass panel that lets him peer into the room and he takes advantage. He raises a brow and watches the form pound away at the heavy bag for a few moments. 

Right until she looks up and meet his gaze through the windowpane. 

\--------

_Just keep hitting_ , you tell yourself, panting slightly. Your knuckles ache from the impact despite the wraps. It doesn’t take much for you to realize that, as always, your form is suffering without Pabs here to yell at you. _Ground your feet_ , you remind yourself. _Good balance_. You throw another three punches and barely keep from wincing. Your music thunders through the room. The bass beat is heavy, just the way you like your hype-up songs. _Just a bit more_ , you promise yourself as you take a deep breath. It’s always such a struggle to regulate your breathing with the heavy bag. 

You close your eyes for a second. Then you start again. Your next set of punches is in time with the beat. You can’t help the small laugh that bubbles forth. 

It’s hard to tell what makes you realize you’re not alone. Maybe there’s a sound in the sudden silence of the track switching over. Could be the sensation of the hair on the back of your neck rising. Either way, you just know. You glance up from the heavy bag and make direct eye contact with a set of bright blue eyes. 

You yelp, stepping back from the heavy bag quickly. It swings back towards you; you manage to grab the bag at the last second to keep it from knocking you off balance. It still connects with your hip with enough force to make you grunt. 

The man at the window winces for you. A sheepish smile crosses his handsome face as he tilts his head in question. You press a hand against your smarting hip but beckon him in. 

You realize your mistake just as he opens the door. His eyes widen as the music blasts him, his hands coming up to cover his ears automatically. In your panic, it takes a lot longer than you’d like to actually get the stupid control buttons on your smartwatch to work. But the music finally clicks off. 

“Sorry, sorry, you okay?” you ask. 

“I’ll live,” he says with a laugh. He drops his hands from his ears and shoves them into the pockets of his sweats. “How about you, you okay? That wasn’t a love tap from the bag.” 

“Don’t remind me,” you reply. You finally let go of the heavy bag and step back from it. “You must be Steve.” 

He tilts his head. “That’s me, but I didn’t know anyone was expecting me. Also can’t say I wasn’t expecting anyone else to be here at this hour.” 

“Oh, no, Pabs just mentioned that you might stop by at some point. Said you were looking for some quiet time to work out, so it might overlap with some of the times I’m here on occasion.” You start to unravel the wrap on your left hand. “Hopefully you didn’t have to spend too much time seeing my horrible form.” 

Steve chuckles. “It was pretty bad,” he admits. He hesitates for a moment. “You gotta keep your hands up more.” 

“I know, I know,” you sigh. “The boys all despair of me. I’m better when they’re here to keep me on track.” You drape the unraveled wrap around your neck and start on the other one. 

“Anyway, don’t let me keep you from your workout. Glad you finally made it here. Hope it manages to be what you need,” you say with a small smile. 

“Thanks,” Steve says. “I appreciate it...” 

He trails off and you blink. “Oh,” you say. “Sorry.” You introduce yourself and hold out your hand. He pulls his hand from his pocket and shakes. His grip is firm and warm. Once you disengage, you lean down and flick off the speaker system before grabbing your towel. It goes around your neck along with the second wrap. A few seconds later, you’ve gathered all of your things and have brushed by Steve on your way to the hall. “Speaker system’s a little wonky in that first room,” you call back to him. “Don’t forget to lock up if no one else is here by the time you leave. Have a good workout!” 

Steve blinks and follows you out into the hallway. You’re already halfway down it, heading past the room he’d dropped his stuff in. “You too,” he says faintly. You raise a hand to acknowledge him even as he winces, realizing his gaffe. Then you’ve rounded the corner and are out of his sight. 

Steve makes his way back to the first room. 

Well, it wasn’t exactly the quiet morning he’d anticipated, but it certainly wasn’t bad, either. 

\------------

“You did not tell me he was hot,” you whisper into your phone. “I mean, Jesus, Pabs.” 

Pablo laughs. The sound is rich even through the phone’s speaker. “I honestly wasn’t sure he’d ever show up,” he says. “So why get you all excited?” 

“You’re the worst.” 

“You love me deeply.” 

“I do,” you sigh. “Dinner when you’re home next week? Also, I called in that favor from way back when. You’ll get good coverage on the next match.” 

“You’re the best,” he says. “And dinner sounds like a plan. Harry also mentioned that new bowling place has a dollar beer night. You up for it?” 

“That is the nerdiest thing I’ve heard in a while. I can’t wait.” 

Pablo scoffs quietly. Silence falls for a moment, the crackling of your phones the only noise. But it’s never been uncomfortable. “So, you didn’t notice,” he says. 

You frown as you walk into your apartment building. “Notice what?” 

He laughs again. “Never mind.” 

“Pablo,” you warn. 

“It’s nothing,” he says. “You’ll figure it out.” 

“You’re the worst,” you repeat before hanging up on him. Sometimes you miss the sweet satisfaction of flipping a cell phone shut to hang up on a person. 

You’re not even halfway up the stairs when your phone beeps with an incoming text. 

_From: Pabst Blue Ribbon_

 _ilu2_

You roll your eyes and continue with your day. 

\---------

You slide the key into the lock and frown as the door gives way under even that little amount of force. You pull the key back out and slide it into your pocket. “Hello,” you call out, pushing open the door and stepping in to the gym. 

Steve’s head pops up from by the carrels for bags. “Morning,” he says. His blond hair is slick with sweat, matted down here and there. 

“Oh,” you say. “Haven’t seen you in a few weeks, so I wasn’t really expecting anyone. Morning.” You take a sip of your coffee. Over the past few months, you’ve only run into Steve a few times at the gym. It’s always a pleasant surprise. Even if you only usually chat for a few minutes before heading to your respective rooms. 

He stands up. “I’m actually getting ready to head out,” he says. “It’s getting late.” 

You raise a brow. “It’s like 5:30 in the morning,” you point out. 

Steve grins, all boyish charm. “Like I said, it’s getting late.” 

“Overachiever.” 

“Been called worse.” 

You roll your eyes and make your way over to the carrels, slinging your bag into one of the available ones. You pause to pull your wraps from the bag and then take a seat on the bench. Steve hunkers back down to finish packing up. You’re just starting to wind the wrap around your hand when he makes a little humming noise. You glance up at him. 

“I’ve been kind of surprised to not see you that often,” he says after a moment. 

You shrug. “I’m pretty hit or miss with my workouts,” you say. “In part due to my deep love of the snooze button. And boxing is basically my least favorite workout of all time.” 

Steve nods. “Makes sense.” He zips up his duffel. You start in on your second wrap. “Actually, that doesn’t make sense at all. Most people avoid their least favorite workout at all costs.” 

“It’s sentimental, honestly,” you admit. “My daddy moonlighted as a cutman back in the day. Between that and Pabs, I was always destined to suffer. One day I’ll break the cycle and be free. Just hasn’t happened yet. You don’t seem to share my woes, though.” 

Steve laughs and leans against the carrels, crossing his arms over his chest. It pulls his tight shirt even tighter across his broad shoulders. You fumble with securing your wrap around your wrist. 

“I used to get beat up a lot, lot of back alley fights, that type of thing,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “Figured it might do me some good to at least learn the basics.” 

“Jesus, Steve.” 

He shrugs. “How’d you end up choosing to come here?” he asks. It’s a transparent move, but if he doesn’t want to talk about it, you’re not going to push him. 

“I’ve kind of got a vested interest in the gym. Plus it would be the ultimate betrayal if I didn’t come to a place that Pabs basically built. How about you? Pabs mentioned a friend of a friend?” 

Steve shoots you a small smile. “Yeah, my friend Sam,” he says. “Not actually sure what the connection is. Think it’s some kind of app? Insta-something?” 

“Instagram?” you ask. Steve shrugs again. “Not a big tech guy, huh? That seems most likely, though. Pabs uses it for marketing sometimes, especially for the fights.” When you glance over at him, Steve’s got a bit of a strange expression on his face. “Hey, you good?” He shakes himself out of whatever’s got his lips thinned into that particular shape. 

“Yeah, sorry,” he says. “Gotta run, though.” 

“Sure,” you say, getting to your feet. “Enjoy the rest of your day. Don’t achieve too much, though, you’ll make the rest of us start to look bad.” 

Steve smiles as he hefts his duffel bag up. “Have a good workout. Keep your hands up,” he teases. 

“Watch yourself,” you laugh. 

He waves as he heads out the door. You watch the glass door swing shut behind him with small smile. 

You let yourself stare at his ass for a few more seconds before heading to one of the private rooms. 

\------------

“Yo, Boy Scout.” 

Steve gets in a few more good punches before he grabs the heavy bag to stabilize it. “Really? Boy Scout?” he asks. “That’s what you’re going with?” 

“Yeah. Want coffee? I brought extra.” 

Steve winces. He’s seen the Starbucks monstrosities that you drink on the days that you’re truly dead on your feet. Your obsession with whipped cream in your coffee is blasphemy in his eyes. “Are you sure? I know how you love your coffee.” He runs a hand through his hair. 

“Rogers. It’s coffee, not my kidney. And I got regular black coffee for you, so stop balking,” you say, narrowing your eyes at him. “Oh, hold on a second.” You put down the cups of coffee on the floor and step closer. He raises an eyebrow but falls still as you take hold of his right hand. “Wrap’s coming undone,” you say. 

Silence falls as you grab the fluttering end of the wrap. Steve’s fingers twitch as you slide your hand under the wrap to loosen it further as you unwind it, your fingertips brushing lightly against his skin. You loosen the wrap all the way down to his wrist and then re-wrap it with delicate, precise movements that seem to take no thought. 

“How do you secure it, usually?” you ask. “I have one that has Velcro at the wrist, but this one doesn’t.” 

“Here,” Steve murmurs, wrapping his free hand around your fingers. “I just tuck it in at the palm.” He guides your fingertips under the wrap so that they graze against his palm and then his hand slides down to your wrist. It takes you a few fumbling moments to tuck it in a fashion that you feel won’t come loose. Once the end is tucked, you press your fingertips into the center of his palm a little bit more firmly before sliding your hand out from underneath the wrap. For a moment, the two of you just stand in the middle of the practice room, his hand still encircling your wrist. His thumb brushes small, steady circles against the sensitive underside of your wrist. 

Steve’s already looking at you when you finally raise your gaze to his face. There’s the slightest hint of pink at his cheekbones. It’s grossly endearing. Then he coughs, looking away and letting go of your wrist. You have to bite your lip to keep the giggles from spilling out. 

“Thanks,” he says. 

“You’re welcome,” you say cheerfully, stepping back towards the coffees. “Do you want this or not? It’s delightfully cold, I’m sure.” You take a sip of yours and scrunch up your nose. “Yup, tepid. Only the best for you, Steve.” 

“I think I’m good, thanks,” he says dryly. He flexes his hands, testing out the wraps. You watch the movement with a small smile. Your phone chimes quietly. You pull it out of your bra and flick your finger across the touchscreen to access the message. Steve says your name. You glance up, thumbs still dancing across the keyboard. “But maybe you and I can meet up for a cup sometime to make up for missing this one?” 

Your fingers fall still. Your phone chimes again as you stare at Steve for a moment. “Ah, yeah,” you manage. “That’d be good. I’d like that.” Your phone chimes twice more. You glance down at it. “Shit,” you mutter. “Look, I gotta go, but uh, text me?” 

“Great,” Steve says. “Can I—“ 

But you’re already by the door and tossing the coffee cups into the trash. Another curse slips from your lips as your phone starts to vibrate with an incoming call. You hit accept, sliding the phone up to your ear. “I’m coming, I’m coming. Just get her sitting down, preferably where no one can see her,” is all Steve catches before the door shuts behind your retreating form. 

“—get your number,” he says with a sigh to the empty room. 

(But a few days later, he finds a note pinned to the extra wraps that have migrated permanently into his carrel. _I’m an idiot_ , your hurried scrawl reads, your number outlined in bold below.) 

\---------------

Before, it wasn’t that unusual to walk into a meeting with no idea about who your potential client was. With your semi-retirement, though, it’s been a while since you’ve faced that particular aspect of the job. And honestly, this is the first time you’ve ever faced this particular situation. 

“Um,” you say, staring up at the Avengers Tower blankly. “You’re sure this is the right spot?” 

The man who picked you up somehow manages to give you a withering stare while wearing sunglasses. 

“Great,” you say weakly. You pluck at your necklace. “Thanks.” 

The car pulls away as you fumble with the zipper of your purse. You tap your passcode into your phone as you start towards what appears to be the front door. 

_Couldn’t have given me a heads up?_ you tap out. 

_Never giving up a chance for such easy blackmail_ , comes the response. _Don’t think I’ve ever seen that expression on you. It’s going in the scrapbook, FYI._

You flick off the security camera before tucking your phone back into your purse. The door slides open to admit you. The second you step inside, the tiles at your feet light up. You follow the path all the way into the elevator. You raise your hand and then pull it back, realizing you have no idea which of the myriad floors you’re going to. 

“I’ve taken the liberty of selecting the correct floor for your destination.” 

“Jesus!” You have to steady yourself against the handrail as the voice rings out from nowhere. It’s a man’s voice, crisp and accented. 

“Apologies. I am JARVIS, the AI that runs the tower. I did not mean to startle you.” 

“I-it’s okay,” you say, shifting slightly as the elevator whirs to life. 

“I just…wasn’t expecting that.” 

“Few ever do,” the AI says. You get the distinct sense that he (it? AI is so beyond your scope) is enjoying himself. 

The elevator ascends in complete silence. You only realize that you’re plucking at your necklace again as the machine chimes to let you know that you’ve arrived on the floor. “Your presence is requested in Conference Room B,” JARVIS says. “It will be the third door to the left.” 

“T-thanks,” you say as the doors slide open. “Appreciate it.” 

“You’re welcome.” 

You step into the hallway and take a deep, cleansing breath. It takes conscious effort to unclench your jaw and let some of the tension roll out of your shoulders. You can do this. It’s not the first time you’ve needed to be poised under pressure and it won’t be the last. 

Still, you take another few seconds to compose yourself when you reach the third door on the left. And if you take a moment to check your appearance, like you’d meant to in the elevator, well, who can blame you. 

You take one last fortifying breath and push open the door. 

The idle chatter dies away as you step into the room. “Good morning,” you say. Tony Stark throws you a wink as you catch his eyes. You breathe out through your nose and let your gaze flicker over to the striking redhead seated close to the door. She’s watching you with cool, calculating eyes, but inclines her head at your greeting. _Good_ , you congratulate yourself. _Good first impression on the superheroes_. 

It takes a second to register that someone is saying your name in a rather incredulous tone. You turn towards the sound, brow knitting in confusion, and start as you meet Steve Rogers’ eyes. “I didn’t—why are you--,” he starts, pushing off the wall he’s been leaning against. 

“Oh,” you hear yourself say faintly. “You’re _that_ Steve Rogers. Okay.” 

Steve must see something in your face, because he’s suddenly beside you and guiding you into a seat. His hand is hot and heavy at the small of your back. There’s a swell of noise as a few of the other Avengers voice some questions that you can’t even begin to process as you slide into the chair. You grip your knee under the table and squeeze hard. 

“Oh my god,” you say in sudden realization. “That’s why the gym’s heavy bag inventory has been so screwed up. You’ve been breaking them.” 

Someone—the built blond with a voice that rumbles like thunder—chuckles. The curly-haired man with glasses hands you a glass of water before retreating slightly. You take a sip without really registering it. 

Steve crouches down next to you. His hand is gentle on your knee. “I thought you knew,” he says quietly. “I mean, I wasn’t sure, because you never mentioned it, but I thought I’d ask for sure next week. I guess I just hoped that you were trying to get to know me and not--” he cuts himself off as someone clears their throat. 

“Never seen you without the mask,” you say. God, you can’t believe how wispy your own voice sounds. The professional in you is screaming herself hoarse in horror. It’s enough to get you to attempt to start gathering yourself back into some semblance of functional. “And it’s not an uncommon name. Plus, I haven’t paid that much attention to the whole…Avengers…” --you wave your hand to lazily encompass the team in front of you—“thing.” You take another sip of water. 

It takes a moment to feel like you’re back on slightly more solid ground. Steve’s thumb is rubbing small circles on your knee. You clear your throat. “Well, this is embarrassing.” You can practically feel yourself fitting the pieces of your professionalism back together. 

When you glance up, it’s directly into a pair of umber eyes. You wince. 

“Look, Spangles,” Tony Stark says, gazing down the table from where he’s got his feet kicked up. You inhale through your nose at the subtle bite of his tone. “Glad you’re already giving our new publicist some material to work with, all gentle hero style. Seriously. She could spin this for days.” He lets his feet fall from the table with a thump. 

“But if this is gonna work, I’m gonna need you to get your hands _off_ of my ex-wife.”


	2. ii. attempted damage control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damage control is so rarely easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hahah I'm a monster I'm so sorry.
> 
> I have been wrestling with this chapter for eternity, it feels like. but I'm feeling much more on track now, and I have a working space bar, so. it's the small things in life.
> 
> goddamn tony is difficult to write sometimes. hopefully I did him some semblance of justice.

Denial burns cold on the tip of your tongue.  Tony doesn’t look at you.  His gaze is fixed on Steve, the challenge in them burning hotly.  You flex your fingers under the table.  It fleetingly occurs to you that perhaps he can’t look at you, that he can’t bear what comes next.  Not for the first time, you spare a few foul thoughts for his impulsive, reactive behavior.

You choke the cruel words down with conscious effort. 

Effort, however, is not required for the lighting quick drop into your most passive, closed-off expression.  It barely even requires conscious thought to pull up that particular mask.  

It feels like coming home in the worst of ways.  

You let out a quiet, shallow breath.  It’s a little more pained than you’d anticipated, but today has already been such a mess that one more slip up barely even fazes you.  Tony’s gaze flickers to you at the sound and he grimaces, just slightly, at the reappearance of that particular set of your jaw.  There’s a vindictive spark that flares to life at the sight of his discomfort.  It’s tempting to push the thorn in deeper, because even his discomfort can’t erase the way your stomach is churning.  

Steve’s hand has gone tight on your knee.  It’s a curious sensation, hovering at the just at the edge of pain.  It reminds you of the water just behind a dam, deep and strong and just barely held back.  He seems to notice just as you do.  The fleeting glance he sends you from beneath his golden lashes is undecipherable.  He doesn’t move his hand, though his grip loosens significantly.  You could shake his hand off your knee with a twitch of your leg.  

You let his hand rest on your knee for a moment more.  Tony’s frown only deepens.  You shift yourself upright in the chair; Steve’s hand drops away, fingers leaving a brief trail of heat across your flesh.  “I can see why you need a publicist,” you quip, but the frost creeps in despite your best effort. From the corner of your eye, you catch the man perched on the window sill exchanging arched brows with the woman.  Tony’s shoulders stiffen briefly before melting back into his usual nonchalance.  It sets your teeth on edge.  “If you’ll excuse me,” you say to the room at large, sliding to your feet as elegantly as you can manage.

It’s a retreat.  You know it.  The Avengers know it.    

You’re already slipping out the door when one of them—you don’t waste the time to try and figure out which—finally starts in your direction.  In the future, you think, it might be fun to brag that you once outran the entire Avengers team without trying.  Right now, you’re already hoping that you can forget the whole episode by the third glass of wine you will definitely be drinking tonight.   

JARVIS lights the way to the elevator for you without comment, the tiles of the floor blooming with soft gold light until you tread across them.  You jab the call button even though it’s already lit.  Then you jab it again for good measure.  You can hear quiet footsteps heading in your direction.

The elevator doors open just as the footsteps draw close.  You step in without looking behind you and keep your eyes fixed on the panel of numbers as the doors start to close.  You’re not particularly surprised when the doors jolt open again, courtesy of the hand that’s been thrust through the swiftly closing gap.

“That could have been bad,” you point out.

“Had worse,” Steve says.  You return his small, unsure smile with one of the bland, amenable ones from your arsenal.  Harry calls them your ‘pod person’ smiles.  Steve’s face falls, just the tiniest bit, and he shoves his hands into his pockets.  “You okay?”

“This—I--“ you blurt.  You close your eyes and take a deep breath before opening them again.   You honestly cannot believe how many times you have lost control over your composure today.  It takes you a few seconds to rein yourself in again. 

Steve waits quietly for you to speak.  His blue eyes are pensive, and his shoulders are slightly tight despite his casual pose.  

“I’m sorry about Tony,” you finally say.  

“Don’t apologize for Stark.”

“He never will.  At least not to you.”  From the way Steve’s eyes flicker, the quiet admission doesn’t slip by him.  Then again, you hadn’t expected it to.

“I’m aware.”

You huff a laugh.

“He is your ex-husband, then.”

“Yes.”

“Honestly, I just can’t believe someone got him down the aisle.”

You smile tightly and Steve winces, taking a step forward, pulling his hands from his pockets in a placating motion.  “Sorry, sorry,” he says quietly.  “I didn’t mean to be flip.”

“It’s fine,” you say.  He’s milder than most have been.  Than most would be.

“It’s not.”

“It’s not,” you agree.  “And just for the record: Tony got me down the aisle.  Not the other way around.”  It’s not the kindest thing, and you know it, but it chafes at you that even with so few people in the loop, that’s always the reaction.  

He winces again and runs a hand through his hair, which manages to shine golden even under the fluorescent lights.  “I—“

“Steve,” you interrupt, “I appreciate you coming after me.  But it has been a very long day and it’s not even noon.  I need some time to process.  I think you do, too.”  You reach for the button for the ground floor.  The ‘open door’ button’s light finally fades; you make a mental note to thank JARVIS for the silent intervention.  If you can get over the displeasure of your conversation being listened in on.  

He shifts.  “I don’t,” he says.  “I like you, I like spending time with you, I’d like to get to know you more, and as far as I’m concerned, Stark has nothing to do with it.  Any of it.  But if you need time, about—about the other thing, I understand.  We don’t have to meet up later this week.”

You sigh.  The elevator doors start to slide shut once more.  Steve makes no move to interfere this time, his handsome features settling into a more pensive expression. For a few cowardly seconds, you’re tempted.  But your hovering fingers press the ‘open door’ button instead of the ground floor.  The way the corner of Steve’s lips quirk upwards is far more endearing than you’d like.

“I’d like to get to know you more, too,” you say.  “And that’s not changed.  It’s important, I think, that you know that.”  The tight line of his shoulders softens slightly.  Something in you melts a bit.  “I just…”

“Need time,” Steve says.  “I understand.  Of course.”

You eye him for a moment. He looks back steadily, so sincere that it almost hurts.  “Thank you,” you say.  “Really.”  You let go of the button.  The elevator whirs back to life.  

Steve slides his hands back into his pocket.  “Sure,” he says.  Somehow, despite no apparent change in his demeanor, it sounds a little bit helpless.  “Get home safe, okay?” 

You bite your lip.  “Yeah,” you say with a nod.  

Something wistful crosses his face before he raises a hand in farewell. It’s a fleeting expression, but it reminds you of the time you caught him peering into one of the practice rooms where Pablo and Mack were having a mock bout.  It’s such a human expression.  You hate yourself for being surprised by it, because he’s still Steve, in the end.  Always will be.

“Hey Steve,” you say in the seconds before the doors slide closed entirely.  He glances over his shoulder with a raised brow.  “I’ll see you Friday.” 

The way his smile makes the edges of his eyes crinkle is just as striking as it was the first time you saw it at the gym.  “See you then,” he says.  “Looking forward to it.”  The doors shut on his warm smile.

You stare at your own distorted reflection for a moment before leaning back against the cool elevator wall with a sigh.  “JARVIS?” you ask.

“Yes?”

“Take me up.”

“Of course.”

You watch the floors whiz by in silence--Tony had adamantly told you that he would agree only to Zeppelin muzak or none at all--and breathe in through your nose.  The text you send to Pablo-- _ you could have mentioned the whole “Captain America” thing, asshole _ \--doesn’t really work as a distraction.  Steve’s surprised smile lingers with you, but it’s not long until it fades into a different set of lips, pulled thin in displeasure.  “Fuck,” you mutter to yourself.

Your phone buzzes with an incoming call.  You roll your eyes as Pablo’s contact information scrolls across the screen and flick decline.   _ talk later, kinda busy _ , you send him as the elevator starts to slow.  The chime of the elevator door rings out at the same time as your text alert.  You glance at his response ( _ wait seriously bro I thought you figured it out weeks ago holy shit this is fuckin gold _ ) before chucking your phone back into your purse.  

You step out into the entryway and glance around for a moment.  “The bar?” you ask.

“To your left and back,” JARVIS replies.  “Might I suggest, if you’re feeling a little piqued, that you indulge in the  Ledaig Dusgadh 42?”  

You stroll through the room to your left.  It’s not hard to spot the beautifully modern bar, but you take a moment at the panoramic floor-to-ceiling windows that open into a dazzling vision of New York.  The Empire looms large in the foreground, a precious bauble, but you find the sailboat bobbing in the distance far more fascinating.  You watch the craft fight the tide.  You trail your fingers over the glass; steam blooms around your fingertips and then fades away as you pull back.  You make your way towards the bar.  “I was thinking the Balvenie 50, if there’s any,” you say.  “And if that gives him any indication of how ‘piqued’ I am, all the better.”

“Ah,” the AI says.  It’s uncanny, the wryness that manages to sneak out where you wouldn’t have thought to expect it.  Though perhaps you should have, considering the creator.  “I see.”  

You open a decanter and sniff.  “It’s the fourth one on your right,” JARVIS says.  “The Balvenie 50.”

You blink.  “Thank you,” you say.  “Can’t say I expected you to assist me in this particular endeavor.”

“He likes to make sure I get put in my place from time to time.”

You pause in the middle of pouring yourself a few fingers.  “Don’t we all?” you ask.  You grab a second glass from below.  “Rocks or neat?”

“I have it on good authority that it is an absolute sin for that scotch to be anything but neat.”

You slide Tony the first glass and drop three ice cubes into the second snifter.  Your pour is a generous, more of a hand than fingers.  Tony makes a low, pained noise.  “Okay, good, this is going well,” he says.  “That is honestly one of the worst things I’ve seen in my life.  And I’m including the alien invasion.  Just saying.”

You glance up at him and take a slow sip.  

He winces again.  “Okay,” he says.  “You’re mad.  I think.  It gets hard to tell when you get all ‘conceal don’t feel’ on me.  You have never actually managed to explain to me how you get your face to do that.”

“Practice,” you say flatly.  “And after all the time I’ve spent with you, a lot of it.”

“Fair point,” he says.  He takes a long pull of the scotch and puts the glass down on the counter.  You pour him another few fingers.  Tony cocks a brow.  “It’s not even noon,” he says.  “I thought I was supposed to be the bad influence.”

You sip at your own scotch.  “I was thinking that if I give you a decent amount of booze, I might actually get a straight answer out of you.”

“Underhanded,” Tony says.  “I like it.”

You shrug.  “One does what one has to after they’ve been outed to complete strangers as Tony Stark’s ex-wife despite explicit wishes to not be.”

“Ouch, does Cap know that he’s a ‘complete stranger’ to you?  I’m thinking he doesn’t.  Boy Scouts don’t touch strangers like that.”

“He put his hand on my--no, you know what, that is not going to work, Tony.  Why did you tell them that?”

He takes a long pull of his scotch.  “Did I say anything untrue?”

“That is besides the point and you know it.”

“I think it very much is the point.”

You lean forward to rest your forehead on the cool surface of the bar.  “The point, Tony, is that we have kept our marriage between us for a long time.  Is this about you and me or you and Steve?  Because I’m thinking it’s about you and Steve.”

“Maybe it’s about the fact that you hate telling people you’re my ex-wife.  Or being my ex-wife.  I can never quite tell.”

You raise yourself back up to look at him. Tony meets your gaze steadily, that small, smug smirk pulling at the corner of his lips.  It doesn’t reach his tired eyes.  

“Is it so bad?” you ask.  “Is it so bad to want to be more than ‘Tony Stark’s ex-wife’?  To want my own name, my own introduction?  Fuck, Tony, you didn’t even tell them my name.”  You keep your voice low and steady.  

“I didn’t have to,” he says.  “Rogers already knew it.”

You close your eyes.  “Okay,” you say.  “We’re not going to get anywhere with this right now.  I should have known better.”  You take a deep breath.  When you open your eyes again, Tony’s examining you quietly.

“Always managing the situation.  JARVIS, call a car.”  He drains his tumbler.

“Tony--” you start.

“Nah, you’re right,” he says.  “We’re not going to get anywhere with this right now.”

“Fine,” you say after a moment.  “Fine.”

Tony fidgets with his phone as you take another sip of your scotch.  He makes a face when you pour the rest of it down the bar sink’s drain, but doesn’t actually open his mouth, to your utter surprise.  You slide by him to make your way back to the elevator.

“Hey,” he says.  When you turn towards him, he’s facing the windows, staring out over the expanse of New York.  “C’mere.”

You sigh but comply.  Tony pulls you into his side, one arm wrapping around you tightly.  You turn into the motion. “You’re the worst, sometimes,” you say into his chest.  The arc reactor shines through his shirt, just slightly.  

“For better or for worse,” he reminds you. 

“That doesn’t count if we’re divorced,” you grouse.  

“I know,” he says.  “I know.”  He gives you a small squeeze.  “We good?”

You sigh.  “We will be,” you say.  “Eventually.”

“God, it really is hard to tell when you’re mad at me.”

“Shut up.”

“If you don’t want to hear me talk, you’ll have to leave.”

You wiggle out of his grip.  “This isn’t over,” you say gently.  “We can’t put this off forever.”

“Yeah,” he says.  “But what’s another few days?”

You roll your eyes but know that you’ll get no further.  As it is, you’re pleased enough that this hasn’t gone totally downhill.  “Bye, Tony.”

He makes a quiet noise of acknowledgement, already tinkering with a piece of Iron Man armor that had been stored behind the bar.

“Your car is here,” JARVIS prompts.

“Thanks,” you say.

You flip idly through your phone as the elevator descends.  Pablo’s texts have devolved rapidly, all varying theories of how you finally figured out that Steve is Captain America.  You exhale through your nose.  You put your phone down and cover your face with your hands.  The tears don’t fall, but you can feel your shoulders shaking as you gasp for air.  You give yourself a full minute before sucking in a final deep breath and pulling all the pieces back together.

You dab at the mascara you can feel spreading out just below your lashline.

“JARVIS?” you ask quietly.

“Yes,” the AI replies, gentler than you’ve heard him.  

“Don’t tell him,” you say.

The AI is silent for a moment.  “If you insist,” he says.

“I do.”

“Very well.”

“Thank you,” you say, tucking your purse under your shoulder more firmly as the elevator doors open.

“You’re welcome,” the AI says. 

And with that, you stride out from Avengers Tower with every goddamn intention of going directly back to bed.


End file.
